Trauma
by daniel-gillies-manpurse
Summary: Every morning, you will turn on the tv, and there will be some tragic murder on the televison. The reporter will roll off details nobody cares about, and a quote from the victims mother and the chief of police, and you will carry on sipping your tea and nibbling your toast, because it will never happen to you. But today it does. A klaroline fanfiction.
1. Chapter 1

Every morning, when you turn on the news, there will be a tragic story. It might be a loss of life, a tragic disease, a natural disaster, but you will sip on your tea and nibble at your toast and carry on as if it never happened.

Maybe, you'll feel sympathy for the people involved. Maybe, just maybe, you might even feel a twinge in your chest and your skin will crawl and you'll wonder why bad things happen to good people. But you never, ever think it will happen to you.

This is what you read about in bad crime books and awful CSI plots. A deranged mad man with the weight of insanity on his shoulders and the metallic texture of a gun in his hand as he points it at you. The shallow beating of your heart inside your ears as you know that if he wants he could end your life. That in a beat of smoke and fire, you could die.

Your hair could be splayed across the pavement with blood sticking to your clothes, your face plastered across the newspaper and a quote from your mother as the reporter reels off details of your death. You carry on sipping your tea, nibbling your toast.

It will never happen to you.

But today, it does.

Caroline Forbes prides herself on her appearance, and on the one day she went without makeup she's got a deranged mad man in front of her with a revolver trained swiftly at her heart. God, she thinks, why am I so shallow?

Because, so far this morning, Caroline Forbes's last words will be "Oh my God, Elena! What _are _you wearing?" She briefly feels sympathy for Stefan, his best friend killed by his brother (and her ex). Poor Stefan, she thinks, and she briefly hopes Elena might actually get her head out of her ass and give Stefan a chance.

Damon's saying something, and his voice is heavy and like honey and why does a murder have such a sweet voice? Like honey over gravel? But no, his words are slurring and she can _taste_ the bourbon on his breath.

She squeezes her eyes shut and pretends this isn't happening. She thinks of things that make her happy. Her friends, her mother, cheerleading, organising proms... shoes.

No. Caroline Forbes will not die a coward. She is Miss Mystic Falls and she'll be damned if she falls to the pavement with a gun shot through her heart and her hair in a mess. No, she'll live. Of course she will. She used to do karate, for like, an entire week.

She's screwed.

But then Stefan's here. Out of nowhere. And then he's pushing her out the way and a shot rings out and pierces her ears and she falls to the floor and Stefan's on top of her, protecting her. She twists impulsively, making sure everything's fine.

She's fine.

Damon's eyes are on fire.

He looks, he looks like he just shot someone. But she's fine. She's smiling like a crazy because she just _survived _a shooting and _HELLO_ she gets to see her prom, thank God.

But Damon's knee's are bucking underneath him and his face is contorted in pain. Maybe he finally feels regrets for the way he treated her when they were dating. Maybe.

She goes to get up and take the gun away from him. She won't call the police, how can she? It's err best friends brother , he can't go to prison. It would kill Stefan.

Stefan. Every morning, there's a story on the news about some tragedy far, far away. A kidnapping, a murder, a natural disaster. There's a quote from the closest living relatives, and the journalist reels off details no one pays attention to. Because it all happens to other people, and it never happens to us. You just carry on sipping your tea and nibbling at your tea.

But this is different. Caroline Forbes almost died today at the hands of her ex boyfriend, Damon Salvatore. Today, Stefan Salvatore was the Martyr that saved her life and took a gunshot for her. Today is the day Damon Salvatore killed his brother. Today is the day Caroline Forbes gets dragged away from the crime scene by a police officer that gives her coffee and a blanket and asks for a statement as Damon Salvatore is dragged into the police car and to jail where he will never again see the light of day.

**3 weeks later**

"Counselling? I don't need counselling, Mom. I'm fine, see?"

"Caroline," Liz starts, walking over to her daughters spot on the end of her bed. Does she really think she doesn't know? "I hear you. Calling his name at night. I see you in the morning with your red face and puffy eyes, but it's been _three weeks._ Damon Salvatore is rotting in jail, why are still so upset?"

"Because of Stefan, Mom. I was meant to die that day, and he had to come and save me. Stefan always saves other people, Mom, why couldn't I just save him?"

Caroline cripples to the floor for the second time in two weeks, the other time being at the funeral.

Caroline goes to counselling even though she doesn't want to.

**Niklaus Mikaelson, Therapist.**

** Specialising in trauma, addiction and criminology.**


	2. Chapter 2- Bourbon

Three swift raps at the door, and he rolls his eyes. He ignores the knock at the door and turns in his large leather chair in which he's seated in like a throne, reaching only half interestedly for the patients file.

_Caroline Forbes_

_ Caroline Forbes was held at gunpoint by a Mr Damon Salvatore, the brother of close associate and school friend, Stefan Salvatore. Damon Salvatore has a history of violence with past girlfriends, and a repeated history of using alcohol in extreme quantities._

_ Miss Forbes is a thriving member of the community, and her Facebook page says that she is Miss Mystic Falls 2011, Chair of the beautification committee, head cheerleader and head of the prom and police raffle committee._

And that was it.

The door swung open and a blonde haired beauty with bouncy curls and creamy skin stepped through the door. He took one look at her obviously painted appearance and paused, just for a second.

The smile was painted on her face, and he could tell it would be much prettier if it was real, she'd erased the flaws in her face with makeup (yet he bet the flaws were small and barley noticeable to start with) and her hands were clenched at her sides as if she didn't want to be there.

Because she didn't.

Caroline took one look at her therapist and sighed inwardly. At least he looked nothing like Damon. But he did look like Stefan. She didn't know _how_ exactly, maybe it was that broken attitude and the hunch in his shoulders that told her that he wasn't as normal as he seemed.

She took in his short sandy hair with the tiny curls and the stubble on his face that screamed womanizer, and sighed inwardly. He looked cute, she supposed. Really cute, but wasn't there like, some kind of doctor-patient relationship thing?

He wasn't like an ordinary therapist, he was way too full of himself. He gave off the appearance of someone who got what they wanted before they asked, girls, money... girls. He lounged in his chair like a God amongst me, his feet resting on his desk.

She expected someone older, with greying hair and glasses and bow ties. She expected a light airy room with a black leather couch for her to lie on and a chest of books behind the chair. Instead, there was an incredibly attractive man with cloudy eyes and a womanizing smirk with a stool in front of him and a large abstract behind him that resembled a snow flake.

"So... Miss Forbes" he started, but she cut him off.

"Caroline. Caroline, Forbes." She corrected him, and he smirked. Her voice rang clear and authoritive, a true cheerleader.

"So, Miss Mystic, why are you here?" He asked, leaning forward in his throne.

She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow at him and nodded towards her open file on the table.

"Like you don't already know" She snapped sarcastically.

Her tone startled him, he expected an air head, not some sassy sarcastic ... thing.

"Well, traditionally love, you come to the therapist to talk."

"Yeah, well... traditionally, people don't get forced into therapy."

"You were forced?" He asks, and God, he's British. This can't get any worse, she thinks. And, did he just call her love?

"Yes. By my mother." Short, snappy answers that reveal nothing. She's hiding something.

"Who was Damon Salvatore? He was your friends brother, I assume that means you had some contact with him beforehand."

She shifts uneasily in her seat.

"Best friend," she whispers, avoiding his gaze, "Stefan was my best friend."

"He died, didn't he, sweetheart?"

She glares at him angrily, and he briefly wonders if she has some kind of personality disorder.

"Did he? I hadn't noticed." She retorts and he settles back into the leather of his throne.

"Seriously? Are you even a real therapist? Aren't therapists usually like, old men who give you some pills and listen to you talk about your childhood while you lie on some big leather sofa?"

"Would you like some pills, Caroline? Is that why you came here?"

"What?" She asks incredously "I'm not a drug addict, god, do I _look_ like a druggie to you?"

"So why are you here, love?"

She grits her teeth in anger, "BECAUSE MY BEST FRIEND DIED BECAUSE OF HIS ASS WIPE OF A BROTHER , OK? BECAUSE HE WAS TOO MUCH OF A GOD DAMNED MARTYR TO THINK ABOUT HIMSELF."

She slams her fist on the table, and it's so unlike her that a tear dribbles down her cheeks, and she can't remember if it's because she lost her best friend forever or because of the shooting pain that's shooting up her arm where her hand hit the table.

Klaus marvels at the girl in front of him, trying her hardest not to cry. She's strong, he thinks. It's obvious she's trying to hold herself together, and yet he doesn't know who for. He noticed her wince as she slammed her fist down onto his mahogany table and reaches under the desk to the mini fridge he keeps hidden down there and takes out an ice cold bottle of bourbon and hands it to her.

"For your hand." He tells her when she looks at him like he's insane.

She reaches one hand towards it, but then takes it back when her eyes read the label.

"He used to drink Bourbon." She answers and Klaus eyes her in authentic curiosity,

"Stefan?"

"No," She answers, and her eyes meet his wearily, as if he's going to bite her at any given time "Damon. Damon smelt of bourbon when he shot him."

He sits back in his chair and rubs a hand across his face, this is his first case and did he get a mute that can't talk to women or an OCD? No, he got the complicated best friends brother tried to kill me but accidently shot his brother and now I can't even drink bourbon case.

"Caroline, why did Damon hold a gun to your head?" His voice is calm and controlled, and he's feeling an unnatural anger at the man for breaking such a pure little girl.

"Chest. He held it directly over my heart." She replies in a monotone.

"Answer the question." He gets up from his chair slowly and kneels in front of her, taking a hand in his.

"Because we dated."

"And, love? That doesn't seem like something to try and kill someone over."

" Can we go somewhere else?"

**A/N I updated after less than 24 hours thanks to a full inbox of favourites, follows and reviews (which please keep coming) and also, the Deroline relationship is a volatile one, remember that Damon does have a history of violence and alcohol addiction. Sorry Damon fans, he just fit with the character I needed. Reviews make me update faster, and please tell me what you thinks' going to happen next. **


	3. Chapter 3- You still remember

He's not sure exactly why he agreed to this. It's definitely got going by the book, because he's pretty sure taking your patients to art galleries is completely against every rule in the therapist handbook, and it defiantly wasn't because he felt sorry for her.

Klaus Mikaelson prided himself on his detachment, the coldness of him. How he could stand back from a patient and _listen _without the drama of emotions and feelings. This was his first case where he wasn't under the watchful eye of his "Father" or his college professors.

And everything had already gone to hell.

He didn't know what to think, when she'd asked him to take her somewhere else. He'd asked her where exactly she'd like to go and she'd half smiled (but the almost clenching of her teeth gave away that it wasn't a genuine half smile but rather the perfected art of a cheerleader) and asked him to take her anywhere, that it didn't matter.

And that's why they're here. At a small marina, built purely for tourist attraction of course. There are a few shops selling outdated clothing, a little cafe and a crowded bar and a Thai place he's been meaning to try.

There's also an art gallery. Small, with only a hundred or so pieces in the entire gallery, and the most expensive piece is only three thousand pounds. But he _enjoys_ it here. It's his place in the world, here. It's what he **_wanted_** to do, what he was _made_ to do (until is "Father" intervened, of course) and now he was stuck in an office listening to a girl break down at a bottle of bourbon, and not at home with a paint brush firmly in his grasp.

"Wait," She pauses and examines a piece of artwork carefully, "This is exactly like the snow flake in your office."

She pauses again and examines him, wondering how a newly qualified therapist could afford a piece of art worth thousands of dollars, and he smirks at her like it's some inside joke.

"I hope my work isn't really all that literal."

"Wait, your work? You did this?"

"Why is that so hard to believe?"

She takes another long look at the painting with a crease between her eyebrows and her eyes scan the painting, top to bottom.

"There's something lonely about it. Something dark."

"This is your therapy session, love. Not mine."

She turns to face him, and he's startled at the expression marred on her beautiful features. He wants to draw her, wants to learn the angles of her face and the tilt of her chin, but he can't.

That would be extremely unprofessional, and God only knows Mikael would find out and beat him for being so bloody stupid.

"Look, you don't want to do this, do you?" She asks him, glancing at him and using her "I'm doing this for your benefit as well as mine" voice that reminded him distinctly of the way Tatia spoke when she wanted something.

"And I don't want to be here either. I don't need therapy. I know my best friends dead and I... just have to get over it."

He smirks, he can see the calming voice she's using to convince him and both herself.

" What about Damon?" He asks cockily as her face flashes with fear and he seats himself on a comfy leather stool and crosses his legs on the table in a cocky manner.

"Your getting over Stefan's death. You just have to grieve, don't you, Love? It's just," He lowers his voice to an almost seductive low whisper with hints of dark intentions that a therapist shouldn't have, " Damon. You can still feel that gun against your chest, can't you? You can still remember thinking your last thoughts; your mother, your friends, what picture they'd use of you when they would report the story in the local newspaper. You can smell the bourbon on his breathe _even_ though he's not here. He's not here, Caroline. He's a murderer who is going away for a long time, and you know that. But your still scared because you still remember."

She's frozen to the spot and she closes her eyes, thinking.

"You don't know anything."

_I don't about you, but I'm feeling twenty-two, everything will be alright if, you keep me next to you, You don't know about me, but I bet you want to-"_

She slides the phone from her dress pocket and answers it.

He watches, mesmerised as he watches how her face somehow sinks like she's in a nightmare and there's no way out.

When she puts the phone away, she doesn't say a word. Doesn't even look at him.

"Now, now, Love. No need to look like someone's crushed your puppy with a steam roller."

She doesn't even acknowledge his presence, and when she speaks, it's as if there's no one home. There's no emotion or expression.

"They released him on bail," she meets his gaze and then grabs her bag "I have to go."

She practically runs from the gallery and down a random alley and she slides down the wall. Her hands fly to her mouth and her nails dig into her palms and she screams into them, tears streaming down her cheeks, because he's free.

Her abusive, using, controlling, murdering ex-boyfriend is free. He's walking the same streets as her. He's seeing the same people as her. God, he's breathing the same air as her, and it makes her sick.

"Believe it or not, Blondie, I've missed you."

**A/N Hope this was O.K. I really need a cover for this because too many of my fics don't have one. So, if you're feeling creative, I'm on tumblr. Heels-and-clutches, follow me if you want. I have a rough idea of what's going to happen and how I'm going to link in a romance and link Caroline and Klaus's stories together. Hint, hint, Tatia and Mikael will be coming up soon :D Oh, and I yes, I know, I have updated 3 times in 2 days.**


	4. Chapter 4- Our Secret

His voice sends shivers down her spine, but his husky breath on her neck doesn't reek of alcohol like it normally does.

She turns around, slowly, like he's a predator and she's the prey. She can't see a gun in his hands, but she makes out the shape in his pocket, bursting from his leather jackets pocket.

"Now, now Blondie, remember our friend Katherine?" He asks.

Katherine. She shakes her head.

His cold hands forcefully bite into her chin and force her into looking him in his eyes pits he calls eyes, and he nods his head.

"I think you do," he whispers menacingly "Our friend Katherine. Y'know, the head cheerleader? The one you _hated._" He emphasises.

"Don't you just wish she was dead?"

She says nothing, just swallows. He prods her tummy with his fingers and she shivers in disgust.

"Hitting the cookie jar recently? Katherine was always so skinny, I bet they had to pour her into her clothes. And , didn't she beat you to student council? And prom committee, and the Police Force Raffle chairmanship?"

It was Katherine that screwed Damon up so much, everyone knew that. Katherine, who broke his heart and ran off with Caleb Lockwood behind his back. Caleb Lockwood who skipped town and never came back.

"I'll... I'll scream." She mumbles, and he laughs, throws his head back and _laughs _at her.

"Go on then. I dare you. But who cares enough to come running, you stupid little girl? You killed Stefan, you know that. Your more guilty than the one who pulled the trigger, had you just kept that gobby little mouth of yours shut... well, we'd not be having this conversation, would we, Blondie?"

Her heart throbs, it's the words, that's what hurts the most, what always hurt the most. The little reminder that Katherine had his heart, and that she never had, that her flaws were so much more prominent. His words were worse than his physical hurt.

"What... do you want me to do?"

There's a gun in his pocket, she can see it. But he's not going to shoot her, no, he needs her.

"I want you," He pulls out the small black revolver (battered) and a small matchbox, "To kill Katherine."

"What?" She gasps incredously, "Are you crazy?"

"Yep."

"No. No. No, Damon, I can't."

"Yes, you can. Or I might have to pay Liz a visit."

"You wouldn't."

"I would. Remember, Liz liked me? She even," he dug around in his pocket and produced a key identical to the one on her key chain "gave me the spare key."

She holds a trembling hand out, and he tips the contents of the match box into her open palm.

Three cool, cold bullets, burn through her palm. Murder, murder, murder they whisper.

His strong hands pull up the other one forcefully, forcing the palm open and putting the gun in her hand and wrapping her fingers around the piece of metal. It's wrong, in her hands, she's never held one before.

"Three bullets. You put them in here, and then you pull this here, and then you aim, and then... you pull the trigger. The first are for Katherine, straight through the heart. Which is here, in case you missed that biology class, Blondie. The third, is for you. Because if you don't, well, Liz is getting on a bit, isn't she."

"I'll do it."

"Good," He smiles broadly at her, and then grasps her chin and kisses her, pushing his tongue through her barricaded lips and his hands travel down to her butt.

"That's my girl."

And then he disappears, and she's left with a gun, three bullets, and an aching heart. But she will not cry.

That morning, she takes an extra effort in her appearance, after all, this is the last time she will get ready for school. She wears a red blouse and some dark wash jeans, she figures the red will hide the blood. Then, she destroys that effort and throws a hoodie (Matts? It wasn't hers.) and stuffs the now loaded gun into the front pocket.

It seems that no matter how much concealer she covers her bags with, they just won't go away, and no matter how much eye brightening mascara she puts on will make her look awake. This is a nightmare, and she wishes she was still asleep.

Her phone beeps from it's place on her bedside table, and she jumps out of her skin. No one texts her, not anymore.

She doesn't bother reading it, and she leaves it on top of the note on her dresser.

Walking to school, tears stream down her face, and her fingers tremble against the weapon she holds so close. She clutches it, like it's a bomb and if she doesn't let go it's going to go off in her face.

It starts to rain, torrential, devastating, rain that hurts and whips her face like someone's punishing her. It's her fault, she should have been stronger, better.

Everyone stares at her as she trudges down the corridors like a fallen soldier. Of course, they don't know what she's about to do, but they stare at her appearance.

"Caroline," a voice shouts at her, and it sounds like Stefan. God, she hopes Stefan is OK. Sorry Stefan.

"Caroline!" The voice clutches at her arm, and Niklaus stands next to her, his mouth open in disbelief and he pants as if he's just ran a marathon to get to her, and he looks at her as if he cares.

"Can we talk?"

She follows him willingly, without any further explanation, if just to put this all off for a little longer.

"What's this?"

In his hands, he's clutching the note she left on the bedside table.

Written on a bright pink love heart postit, is her last words.

"_Sorry."_

It's all too much, and she crumples to the floor.

"Caroline, love."

He sighs, because, what if he had been too late and she had done something stupid? His Father had been on at him all day, how could you let her abandon you? Why did you take her off the premises? You stupid boy! It's strictly against protocol, but he leans down and tries to hug her, but he's never really hugged _anybody _and she flinches away from his touch like she's been burnt.

"He made me."

His forehead creases.

"Who made you do what, sweetheart?"

She's too tired to remind him to call her Caroline.

"Damon. Yesterday, he got... released on bail, and he... he was outside the gallery and... and if he knew where I was does that mean he never leaves me? Oh God, he's watching. He knows where I am."

"Sshh, shhh, love, stop rambling." His soothing doesn't help, and she clenches her eyes tighter. Her finger fumble for the thing in her pocket, and she draws it out slowly, but he doesn't flinch away from it, he's used to the sight of guns.

She hands it over to him and grabs his hand.

"You can't let him hurt my mother."

"Why? Why would he hurt your mother?"

"Damon is the one who... he found me, and he gave me this, and he told me to... to kill someone. And if I didn't... You can't tell anyone Klaus, they'll say I'm crazy or that-"

Screw protocol and rules, for some reason, this girl deserves, needs, more than what the rules can offer, and he uncurls her fingers around it so it rests in his hand and _only _his hand. He wipes it with the edge of his Henley (he's much more casually dressed today) and tucks it into his front pocket.

"Our secret. No one will know."

She glances up into his sparkling eyes, and he's telling the truth. Something in his eyes tell her she's safe, and that he won't hurt her.

He extends his arm towards her slowly, cautiously, like when you show a defenceless animal you mean it not harm, and opens his hand.

"Come on, love. Let's go pull a sickie."


	5. Chapter 5- Ponytail

There are a hundred different types of ponytail,and Caroline Forbes has worn them all. There's the childhood handle bar ponytail that she wears on her kindergarten photo's. There's the determined cheerleader ponytail that sits right on top of her head and bounces as she walks in that ray of sunshine that only shines on her. Then, there's the head of the dance comitee pony that's sloppy and more of a bun but holds the hair away from her eyes. There's the wet hair pony and the putting on her makeup pony. And then there's her I almost killed myself today ponytail.

It's not neat or perfect, and it isn't high or bouncy. It doesn't hold the hair away from her eyes and her hair isn't wet and she isn't re-applying the makeup she cried off in his car.

He taps nervously on the steering wheel, he almost lost her today. His first (and only) patient almost killed herself. Because of Damon Salvatore.

Something flickers in his memory at the name, something that Caroline didn't tell him. It was Kol, he thinks. Kol used to be somewhat a good friend of the man but it ended on bad terms after a baseball match and Damon's erratic alcohol abuse.

Trying to comfort the fallen and defeated blonde, he had reached out. He remembers somewhere that physical contact is against regulations and that he should be maintaining a detached persona, but he can't. He can't call the police because it's their secret. He can't tell her Mother because she is the police and he promised. And he can't help her because she won't let him.

To hell with regulations and rules. He never wanted to do this anyway. He wanted to paint and travel and see something and do something and be remembered for his artwork so that he could live forever through his canvases. Helping people wasn't his forte.

"Why are you in black?" her eyes are firmly on his and he smiles at her. It's not real or warm or welcoming. It's deflecting.

"Is the songbird finally singing, sweetheart."

"Caroline," She corrects automatically in her know it all tone,as if she didn't just give him a gun and he didn't just find her suicide note.

"And you look like you just came straight from a funeral."

He did.

"I'm your therapist, love. It doesn't matter what I'm wearing."

He keeps his eyes on the road.

" You don't want to be."

There's something cold and empty about her voice that attracts his gaze. She's smiling at him like everything is O.K, but he knows it isn't in the way her eyes hold his gaze.

"Don't want to what, love?"

"Be my therapist. "

His gaze is still locked with hers and maybe that's a little dangerous considering he's on the freeway, so he pulls his black land rover over and turns in his seat to give her his full attention.

"What makes you say that?"

"You really suck at it."

" Thanks for that sweetheart. I'll remember that next time I come to your rescue."

"Thanks. For that. But-"

She pauses and then she freezes.

"My mother," She looks at him helplessly as her hands slither up to mouth, clasped together.

He notices, then, something he should have seen before.

"He's going to-"

He cuts her off and grabs her wrist, maybe a little roughly and pushes her baggy hoodie sleeves up past her elbow.

He notes that it's a lot thinner than it was at the gallery, and a glance down at her legs proves that her jeans are hanging off her. What scares him the most, however, is not her painfully skinny figure. No, what scares him the most are the perfectly straight scars on the inside of her wrist.

"Are there any more of these?" he asks calmly.

She ignores his piercing gaze and ignores them.

"Caroline."

"He's going to kill my mother, Klaus."

He looks at her blankly.

"I **said**-"

"I know."

He turns the key and clenches his jaw. She pretends not to notice its a very _nice _jaw like she pretended not to notice his dimples at the Marina gallery.

He tosses his mobile in her direction. It's sleek and elegant (and black, obviously.) and expensive looking.

"Scroll through the contacts. Can you call Elijah M. and Kol for me please, love?"

She glares at him.

"Let me go to my mother."

"Yes, sweetheart, that is where we're going."

"We? You can't come, he'll kill you."

He rolls his eyes at her.

"Scroll through the contacts and call Elijah M and Kol. Give them your mothers address, and tell them to meet us there."

"What? No! We'll all die! He's insane, Nik. He'll kill us all."

"Don't call me Nik. Do as I say."

"No."

He glares at her and she glares at him. He sighs, and takes the phone from her hands.

He clicks a few buttons, one hand on the steering wheel, and then places it in the dashboard.

The phone rings out.

"Niklaus, where are you?"


End file.
